


Three Names Coulson Calls Skye

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson is ridiculously in love with Skye, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Skye's name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(And one time he doesn't call her anything)</p><p>My 'dealing with the name change' fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Names Coulson Calls Skye

**Skye**

“Skye,” he breathes her name in and out, holds her to his chest and he’s not sure which of them he’s meaning to comfort more. “Skye.”

She’s stopped crying, at least stopped the ugly sobs that pull her mouth into a hard frown and make her whole body quake in his arms. Tears still run down her cheeks, he can feel them soaking his shoulder, but they’re the unfeeling kind.

When he found her in here — locked in the vibranium cell on the Bus — she had been holding it together, only lost it after he was holding her for dear life.

And of course he wants to comfort her, of course he wants her to know that she is loved, that whatever happened to her down there doesn’t change that. But it’s also selfish — so fucking selfish — because Skye is precious to him and he’s terrified that he’ll lose her now.

He can’t deal with it, with the thought of losing her, not after he just got her back from under the remains of the city.

She’s _air_ , she’s oxygen, she’s _Skye_. Nick Fury resurrected him, but _Skye_ brought him back to life, and he can’t lose her.

He won’t survive it.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers against the side of his face. “I’m so sorry, Coulson, I’m —”

“Skye,” he cuts her off. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I should have told you right away.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But I understand why you didn’t.”

“I wish you’d be mad at me.”

It makes him almost laugh, if laughing were a thing he could manage right now.

“None of this was your fault. None of it.”

She nods, but it’s more to placate him than because she agrees with him, and he knows it.

“Skye,” he whispers her name again and again, like maybe it will comfort her to hear it as much as it comforts him to say it. “Skye.”

It’s sometime later, when his back is aching from the way he’s been twisted around her on the bed, that they finally pull apart.

“Are you hungry?”

She nods, and he stands up, stretches out his spine.

He expects her to follow, but she doesn’t, instead pulls a pillow against her chest and almost shrinks on the bed — too small to be Skye.

“I’ll bring something up.”

Because there’s nothing else he can do, nothing else he’s capable of, but he can do this.

  


**Agent Johnson**

“Agent Johnson,” he greets her with a professional nod, and it’s...strange.

Like it’s so _formal_ , like it puts distance between them. But maybe some distance is good.

She strides into his office like she owns the place though, same as she always has, the same exact person she’s always been.

“What do you think?”

She turns a 360 in front of his desk, showing off her new field suit.

“It looks great,” he agrees. “You look...great.”

Powerful and confident, he thinks. She looks like herself, somehow, like this is always how he’s seen her anyways.

She cocks out her hip to the side, some kind of model pose, and he can’t help the grin.

“I feel kind of like a superhero,” she confides in him, like she’s embarrassed to admit it but also really happy with how she looks.

“No arguments here,” he replies, and it’s teasing but it’s also not because...she’s always been a superhero, as far as he’s concerned.

When she smiles at him, it’s almost shy, almost the smile of the young woman he remembers from two years ago. Back when she seemed so _grateful_ , like the mere fact that he listened to what she had to say was something worthy of gratitude.

But it’s also more than that, bigger than that, this person she’s become. And it’s not that she’s learned her value — she’s always known her value, always known the value of doing the right thing. Maybe, though, it’s that she believes people will listen when she speaks, that she believes that other people know her value, too.

And looking at her in her new suit, looking at her ready to be a superhero, he’s so enormously grateful for who she is and everything she’s chosen to become.

“You’d follow me into battle?”

“To hell and back, Agent Johnson,” he agrees.

And god knows she doesn’t need his approval to be a hero, doesn’t need him to follow her in order to be a leader. But her shoulders get straighter, everything about her gets bigger and taller and stronger, and that’s enough for him.

  


**Daisy**

“Daisy,” he whispers her name against her neck as she holds him against her.

It’s bad, and he can tell it’s bad because he’s _cold_. It doesn’t even hurt, he can’t even feel the concrete underneath him. He’s just so cold and numb, and all he can feel is the way his nose fits behind her ear, one spot of warmth in his otherwise cold body.

“Stay with me, Coulson,” she tells him again, and he’s trying.

He is, he’s trying.

“Daisy.”

He hasn’t gotten to say this name enough, he thinks. He’s barely gotten to know her this way, this way where she’s the same person he’s loved from almost the moment he met her, but maybe she’s someone new, too.

He’s had thoughts, thoughts about whether Phil and Daisy could be something that Phil and Skye never could.

Like things are possible with Daisy, Daisy who is a woman he loves but not his reason for living, not his air and his life the way _Skye_ is.

But he’s never worked up the guts to act on those thoughts.

And it’s a fucking shame.

“They’re almost here,” she repeats herself, “stay with me.”

“Daisy,” because he hasn’t gotten to say it enough and maybe he wants to get it in as much as he can. “Daisy.”

It fits his mouth, somehow. It’s not the slow sense of encompassing _awe_ that he’s always associated with her — with _Skye_ — or the more distanced way he can call for Agent Johnson.

 _Daisy_ is the more immediate reality of his body.

It’s his heartbeat — _Dai_ -sy, _Dai_ -sy, _Dai_ -sy — like if he can keep saying her name, he can keep himself alive. Like he can keep his heart beating to her name.

“Coulson _please_ ,” she whispers against the side of his face, and he can feel her lips moving by his other ear, by the one that’s not pressed to her shoulder, and then he can’t feel anything.

 

When he wakes up, it’s on a gurney, and he’s not numb anymore — everything is hot and painful — but she’s there next to him, eyes red from crying.

“Daisy,” he manages to grind out her name in time with the heart monitor beeping behind him.

She smiles, like the sound of him saying her name is the only thing she’s ever wanted.

Her hand slips into his, and she squeezes.

  


**+1**

“Hi,” he greets her as she steps into his office. She’s dressed down after the mission — black leggings and a black tank top, and he’s stopped being surprised by how much he wants her all the time. It’s too all-encompassing to even notice anymore, to pay special attention to the curves of her body and the lines of her clavicles and the determined set of her chin.

“Hi.”

It was a bad one. He knows it’s hit her hard because the girl was an orphan, someone with no one, and she will always have a special place in her heart for helping the people that have no one.

He rises from his desk and holds up the decanter of Scotch in offer; she nods and sinks down onto the old leather couch.

Once he’s poured them both a glass, he settles in next to her.

They sip quietly because there’s really nothing to say.

It was a bad one.

The postmortem will be tomorrow, picking apart what they can learn from this, but right now it’s only about comfort.

And he’s good at this, he thinks. Or he tries to be. At being a comfort.

She’s the one that breaks the silence.

“Do you ever think about what would have happened to me if I hadn’t joined SHIELD?”

“After I gave you the GH-325, I thought about it,” he admits. “When I wasn’t sure if I had doomed you.”

“Turns out that was the least of my troubles, though.” Her voice is wry, a kind of bitter smile.

He swallows.

“You would have been fine,” he promises her.

“I was poking at Centipede,” she reminds him. “Maybe Raina would have found me anyways. Maybe I would have drunk the Afterlife koolaid. Maybe I would have ended up like Kimberly.”

The girl got caught up by a violent Inhuman faction that focused on the mission and not the lives of the individuals, susceptible because she had no one.

He cups her cheek in his hand, the line of her jaw fitting perfectly in his palm.

“There’s no version of your story where you aren’t a hero.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

And it could be something tossed off, but he thinks she needs to know today.

“Because you’re —” He swallows, eyes locked so hard on hers. Because she’s _Skye_ who digs for the truth and because she’s _Agent Johnson_ who saves the day and because she’s _Daisy_ who cares so much for the entire world, for every individual person. “Because you’re _you_.”

He doesn’t expect it when she kisses him, the sudden press of her lips on his, and he gasps at the sensation. It makes him almost lightheaded, the warmth of her mouth and the sudden thundering of blood in his ears and down to his cock.

She pulls back quickly, too quickly, and looks into his eyes like she’s trying to peer into his soul.

Then she nods, like she approves of whatever she sees there.

He moans, a breathy helpless sound, when she swings her leg over his lap.

Her leggings are the really thin kind that are usually for the gym, and the heat between her thighs presses against him, so real and immediate that it’s almost terrifying.

He’s gotten comfortable, somewhere along the line, with wanting her in every part of his life, wanting her with every part of himself.

The thought that she might return that, that he might get what he wants, isn’t something he’s actually prepared to deal with.

“Tell me you want this,” she requests, even though he’s almost painfully hard against her, so she can’t have much doubt.

“I want this,” he agrees. “I want _you_.”

Because he’s not remotely prepared to handle this, but he’s completely incapable of pushing her away anymore.

When her lips meet his again, he returns the kiss, hot and increasingly desperate.

“This isn’t just comfort,” she half-asks, her right hand pressed to his chest for a moment to keep distance between them.

“No,” he agrees. “No, no, I…” He swallows, shakes his head. “I _love_ you.”

She can’t possibly be _surprised_ by this, but something in her face says she’s not sure she can believe it.

He threads his right hand through her hair and draws her lips down against his, whispers it into her mouth, below her ear, into her neck, into her shoulder.

That he loves her, loves all the parts of her.

He’s still whispering it as they collapse onto the couch, her underneath him as he moves his mouth down her body.

She helps him pull off her clothes, tank top thrown across the room with her bra so that he’s moving his lips against her collarbone, her breasts, her nipples, down her stomach, against the scar from where she was shot.

“Please,” she grunts, and the desperation in her voice pulls him away from dark thoughts and back to the reality of her body underneath him.

He pulls back enough to tug her leggings down, leaving her naked on the couch, and wastes no time pushing up between her legs, open-mouthed and desperate as he tries to show her, tries to make her understand, what she means to him.

She comes so easily with his tongue pressed against her clit, her fingers raking through his hair, but he can’t possibly let up so quickly.

When her hands relax against his head, instead of pulling back, he pushes his tongue inside of her, trying to drive her higher, harder.

This time, she’s louder with her legs wrapped around him and her heels digging into his back, calling out his name as she pushes against the back of his head and grinds herself up harder against him.

He’s so _satisfied_ by the way her body almost goes limp, by the way her breaths slow down in the aftermath.

Even as he’s hard, pressed against the zipper of his slacks, grinding himself slowly into the couch cushions, he’s satisfied just to kiss her thighs, to rub his face beneath her bellybutton, to curve his right hand around her knees and up to her hips, to appreciate her perfect, miraculous body.

He touches her with the metal hand, soft at first to make sure it doesn’t bother her, but she just arches into the touch. And he’s so grateful, so hopelessly grateful, when she sighs contentedly at the feel of the robotic hand curving around her hip, opening her thighs up so he can keep pressing soft kisses against her.

“Coulson,” she sighs his name sometime later, when he’s taken to very intently kissing every inch of the delicate skin at the very top of her inner thigh, and he moans in response.

She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, a proprietary kind of touch, like she owns him — and she always has, it’s not a new thing, just that she knows it, now.

Slowly, he crawls up her body, laying kisses against her skin as he goes.

“Take off your clothes,” she tells him. It’s an order, not a request or a question, and it sends another surge of blood to his cock, makes him throb harder behind his zipper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, tries to find some sense of calm, but there’s none to find.

He pulls back from her long enough to throw his shirt and tie off, to shuck his pants and boxers and socks and shoes off to the side. His hands shake with want the whole time he’s not touching her.

It’s somehow surprising — even though it probably shouldn’t be — when she pushes him onto his back and crawls over him, settling herself with her legs on either side of his hips so that his cock is trapped between them, so he can feel the wet heat of her.

“I have condoms in my desk,” he manages to tell her as he pulses his hips up against her, feeling the slip of his cock against her sex.

“Were you planning on having sex in your office, Phil?”

She’s teasing him, grinding herself against him.

“I figured it I ever worked up the nerve, it would be in here,” he admits, somehow too honest even though they’re naked together, even though they’re naked together and he had his tongue inside of her.

Her whole face goes soft, and she leans forward to kiss him, soft and slow like he’s precious to her — as precious to her as she is to him. He whimpers when her lips fall to his jaw, biting gently at his chin before kissing his neck and then down to the scar across his heart.

She’s seen it before — she saw a lot of him while he was recovering from the gunshot — and she kisses that scar next, to the left of the ugly reminder of Loki.

“We don’t need a condom,” she informs him. “Unless you —”

“No,” he shakes his head. “No I just, in case you —”

She smiles at him, like she finds him adorable, as she rises up and directs his cock towards her entrance. It’s _tight_ , unbelievably tight, and she hisses as she starts to rock her hips, taking him in slowly.

He tries to help — cupping her breasts with his right hand as his left runs down her spine, and then pressing his fingers to her clit — until she’s sunk all the way down on top of him.

He grits his teeth harder, almost overwhelmed with the feel of her around him, and he’s not sure whether he’s trying harder not to come or not to start moving prematurely.

“God,” she whispers, and then moans when she tilts her hips. He can see her nipples get harder, her skin flush as goosebumps spread up her torso, and he moans in return.

She lets herself fall forward, forward so her hands are wrapped around his, pressing his arms down on either side of his head as she starts to move her hips. All he can do is hold on, hold on to her hands, hold on by digging his feet into the arm of the couch, as though that will somehow ground him, somehow keep him from flying apart.

It gets harder as her movements pick up, as she begins to shift her weight backwards, so she’s sitting up on top of him and circling her hips as fast as she can.

He keeps his arms by his head, keeps still even when she’s not holding him down, and watches the hypnotic movements of her breasts, watches the way he can see the base of his cock where it disappears inside of her.

“Can I touch you?”

Her hips stutter to a stop for a moment, and she lets out something that might be a laugh.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Touch me,” and she grabs his right hand, guides his fingers between her legs so he can press against her clit as she starts to move again, grinding down against him until she’s shaking, so close he can feel it.

He just grits his teeth, holds back, tries to wait for her.

“Come for me,” he half-begs her as his own orgasm starts to feel impossibly close, and he presses tighter circles against her clit.

“Let go,” she tells him instead, and he abandons his clenched teeth and tense body, instead grips her hips and begins to thrust up against her, chasing his own release.

As though that’s what she needed — to see him lose control — she comes first, pulsing around him as he comes inside of her.

“I love you,” he whispers against her ear when she’s collapsed on top of him, sweaty torso stuck to sweaty torso, his back stuck to the leather.

She doesn’t respond except to release a shuddering breath against his neck, like maybe she’s on the verge of tears.

And it won’t be today, but someday he’ll find a way to show her how he loves all the parts of her.

  
  



End file.
